


bIG DEAL!

by sclerant (rufusrant)



Series: the hot mess [6]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, IDIOTS IN LOVE., M/M, Modern AU, and by that I mean starrison, now back with even more plot than before, running around screaming a lot again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-02-07 09:16:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21455641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufusrant/pseuds/sclerant
Summary: the morning after their disaster camp,John must deal with the uncomfy strain between him and Paul, George and Ringo's new combined sTUPID, and keep the neighbours from finding out about Paul's new PET before he goes completely batshit insane.and he has to do it all before George's birthday party.
Relationships: George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Series: the hot mess [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1188245
Comments: 67
Kudos: 63





	1. george gets covered in mayonnaise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blobfish_miffy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/gifts).

> to miffy, who is love, life, an angel, an amazing friend, and also a helluva awesome writer. so i hope you like it! <3
> 
> and thus, welcome to season 2. this is a love story!

February 1 

Amazingly, Paul’s still asleep when John wakes up. He’s rolled naked in the blanket like a hungover worm and reeking aflush of Lush bath foam. John takes a whiff of his own hand and oh boy does it smell like babies and softness and everything nice in the world too. He nuzzles the back of Paul’s head, sweet and blissful and— 

BREAKFAST.

Arse-naked beneath Paul’s bathrobe, he kicks open George and Ringo’s door. It’s half-past ten and their empty, unmade bed smirks at him.

“Hazza,” he shouts down the hall, “HAZZA.“

An indistinct murmur from the kitchen. John bounds over in four steps and a slide, and lands to a stop right in front of George, Ringo, the stove, and most shockingly, a_ woman. _

He stares. His bathrobe billows open.

"Uh," says Ringo.

"Oh _ Lord," _ says George, flipping an egg in a pan. "We have _ company!" _

John pulls the robe around himself tighter, while the woman, he squints, has just met his eyes. She's no spring bird; she has a weathered face that peeks out under long grey hair and solid white glasses. She looks like somebody's old grand-aunt, and yet he can't shake the feeling of being extra-scrutinised. 

She smiles at him. "Hello."

"Yes," John nods at her quick. "Hey, I wanna help make breakfast."

"We're, ah, nearly finished," Ringo says, dumping a barrage of spoons in the sink. 

"Oh c’mon, there’s gotta be _ somethin’ _ I can do.“

“Wake Macca then,” laughs George, a very slappable smirk glowing all over him. “We’ve made all the nosh.”

"Well, y'see, I told Macca _ I'd _make his breakfast—"

The woman comes between them both, hands him a plate stacked with bread. He nearly steps back.

"Then maybe you can pop these in the toaster, dear?" 

“But Missus,” George says in a sickly baby voice, “John doesn’t _ know _how the toaster works.”

“What? I _ do!” _

“Oh?” She chuckles. “Well, he’s just like my husband. We’d better teach him then—”

“An’ Paul’s banned him from usin’ it, actually.”

“Shuddup! That was like last year,” John shouts. “And who,” He points a very confused finger at the woman, “the hell are you??”

George stares daggers at him through mid-scraping a sticky omelette onto a new plate. 

“I could ask you the same, really,” the woman adjusts her glasses in a way that makes John _ very _ much wish he had his. She smiles at George, and at a frozen Ringo at the sink. “I forgot there were four of you! John, was it?”

“Wh- what?”

“Agnes Henderson,” she puts out her hand. “I live right across.”

A snicker, probably George. Doing his best to refrain from lobbing the bread plate at his head, John shakes her hand. Ringo turns the tap on. 

“...hi.”

“Hi yourself. You don’t look like a shy one.”

John grimaces. He’d just been epically tired at Paul’s idea of going to meet the neighbours when they were fresh in London, claiming he’d rather unpack the boxes and catch up later. And it wasn’t later _yet._

“Ritchie, love,” she says smoothly, “Could you just pack me a Tupperware? I'm pickin' up my granddaughter.”

“Sure ya can’t stay?" Ringo pouts. "The eggs are famous, you know—”

John takes the opening to escape. He slots two slices of bread into the toaster and turns the timer. 

“...so sorry to hear about the camp trip,” Mrs Henderson says. “Especially Paulie.”

“He’s a toughie. He’ll live,” George nods. “Thanks for the recipe.”

“Anytime! I’ve got to go,” she dusts her hands off. “Nice meeting you, John!”

“You too.”

“Lemme know if you have any toaster trouble, yeah? You shouldn't really, it's so easy! I’m right across you four.”

“Okay,” John groans. _ “Boomer.” _

“What?”

John ignores her. He rocks back and forth on his heels, tapping the counter. The bread isn’t toasting. He’s a few beats in before he realises the thing’s unplugged.

“Agnes, d’you like trail mix?” Ringo asks as he ushers her to the front door. “Cause we’ve got way too much—”

The toaster starts heating up, and there’s a shuffle behind John. His eyes dart to the side just the slightest, and he and George are exactly back-to-back, at the counter and stove, barely two paces between the backs of their bare feet. He takes a quiet step to the right.

“Seeyou round!” Ringo calls.

John makes a start to run, but George still manages to kick him right in the ankle, despite having a twisted one himself. He stumbles just a little, elbows catching flat on the counter. 

“Rude,” George says, not looking up from where he's wiping the stovetop. 

“Excuse you,” John pulls himself up. “I’ve never met ‘er.”

“Doesn’t mean you can be a fuckin’ _ arsehole.” _

“I— why the hell was she in here anyway?”

“Gave her a key.”

John promptly knocks over a squeeze bottle of mayonnaise. “YOU WHAT.”

“What? Needed someone to water me plants. I wake up and she's here doin' just that.”

“WHAT PLANTS??”

George blinks hard, as if John were simple. He points to the kitchen window, where a row of five tiny pots are lined up. 

_“Those _are plants????”

“What did ya think they were??” George chuckles. “What the fuck, John.”

“They’re called succulents,” Ringo supplies helpfully.

“Oh, shuddup. Don’t ya have eggs ta cook?”

“They’re done. Go wake Paul,” George waves him off. “Better not let him see ya in his robe, though.”

“Fuck off! I was naked.”

“You don’t have ta tell us twice,” Ringo snorts, picking up his mug. “Last night was fuckin _ bangin’ _wasn’t it, Geoaa_aaAAAAAAAAAAAAAhHHH! _”

George jumps. Ringo drops his mug smack on the counter, and a HUGE COCKROACH spills out along with his tea. He wastes no time darting behind George, and John holds his breath. It’s shiny black and the size of a fUcking tennis ball. George snatches the spatula from the pan, but he’s still rooted to the ground. 

“Well?” John hisses. George and Ringo exchange a look, and Ringo runs sharpish to the back of the kitchen.

“What the fuck.”

The cockroach starts flying. 

“WHAT THE FUCK,” screams John. He ducks as it flies at his head, wet wings bouncing it into the wall and back over to George, who slices the spatula left and right like a blind blade. 

John shoves the toaster out of the way, a near miss to George’s swing. And yet the roach lands on the tip of his nose. He flattens himself on the counter with a screech, elbow on the mayonnaise, and splatters George with a burst of white sauce. Then scream, crack, _ smash. _John blinks rapidly, one knee on the counter. George, smeared in mayo, stares down at the floor at a mess of striped shards and crushed cockroach, equally splattered spatula shaking in his fists. 

THEN Ringo returns, armed with a Combat spray. He takes one look at George, John, the mess on the floor, and sighs. 

The toaster goes off. 

~

Paul wakes and sits up with a start. He has a thick bandage wrapped around his right elbow, and gawks at it for all of one moment before the heavy smells and boar grunts wash over him like an insistent tide. He lets out a groan and drops back into the pillow, pulls the covers over his head. The curtains hovering above his face blow up, and light flits in just to spite him. 

He isn’t getting up. He’ll get breakfast in bed if he has to. Hell, he’ll make John bring it on a tray and call him_ Sir Princess Mademoiselle Señor_ for all that he’s worth; he’s _ not _getting up. If this was what being in charge was like, he could definitely live with it. And John’s already kept his promise. 

Paul’s just closed his eyes again when Bohemian Rhapsody’s _ Galileo _ sends the whole room into a spike. He slaps his bedside table, cursing the whole world on silent mode, and accidentally clicks _Accept Call._ Ugh, fine. Whatever.

"Hullo?"

_ "Hi, Jamie." _


	2. john goes to sainsbury's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the wait. my brain decided to fry itself like eggs and college decided to whack me one, but it breaks in one week! i'm going on vacation soon, too, but i'm still going to be writing this in all the after hours because i sincerely can't wait to tell the story. 
> 
> to miffy, the best deadline smasher there is.

After they’ve checked that there’s no sign of a woken Paul, John shuts the bedroom door, commandeers the Combat and sprays the roach until its puddle of tea is a puddle of oil. And George buggers off to the bathroom. The shit’s gotten into his _ hair _ for fuck’s sake. He wets his hands and tries wringing it out. 

“Oh, Christ.” Ringo peers through a crack in the door. “You’re a whole fuckin’ salad.”

George chuckles as he rubs at his face. The stuff smears like slime.

“But salad’s really gear! I like salad,” Ringo adds. “Would’ve made some if we had more veg.”

“Aww.” A tug at a white-greased lock behind his ear. “Guess you’ll have to settle for me, then—”

“An’ is that supposed to be a _ bad _thing?” 

George laughs, braces himself on the sides of the sink. “I’m fuckin’ covered in _ mayo, _ Ritchie!”

Ringo, black tee and sleep shorts in hand, lets himself in. He looks George up and down.

“What?”

“Well,” he says appreciatively. “At least……...you’re _ dressed.” _

George groans in feigned annoyance. 

“Geddit? Cause you’re a salad, and salads have dressin’ and all— though I do, y’know, fancy some _ without _ dressin’ these days—”

“Smooth fucker.”

“Pretty sure thas’ also you,” Ringo drapes the clothes on the handle. “Have I ever told you you’re a _ saucy _ one—”

George flicks water at him. Ringo dodges, barking out a laugh, but falls still when George reaches out, cups his face, and hobbles a step forwards. 

~

The roach and what’s left of George’s poor mug are swept into the bin. John mops and spritzes the crime scene with freshener to top it all off and finds his laptop still full of charge after, _ thank you Macca._ He googles for cheap phones and scarfs a plate of eggs and toast as he waits for the thing to load. Mimi was going to blow both their gaskets if he called her from Paul’s phone _oNE MORE TIME, because you’re an ADULT and if you break yer phone you should get it fixed don’t you think and stop causing so much trouble for yer poor friends, _J o h n—

Ringo walks in right then, grinning like a git. “ ‘eyyyy.”

“Hey.”

“Sooooooooo, d’you like—”

“You have mayo on yer face.”

Ringo blinks. John gestures to the corner of his own mouth. Ringo blinks again, gormless, and deadass _ wipes _ it. The mayo spreads across his entire cheek like a big smear of paint. John swallows his laughs with a drink of tea.

“So d’you like it?” he tries again, proud as punch. “The eggs. I _ helped.” _

“Ah. Ye laid them?”

“Fresh from me arse.” Ringo pulls out a chair like he’s inviting it to dance. “Cooked up an’ served with—”

“Ifyasay_love_I’llfuckinbiteyouinthe—“

“Cheese! That’s my bit. Didja taste it?”

The eggs are as bland as day. “Needs more,” he nods. Without meaning to, his brain conjures an imaginary George and Ringo standing at the stove— Ringo with his arms wrapped around George from behind, lips smushed into his neck, and George grinning a gooey grin that would send actual-George into a stroke. He cringes silently into another sip of tea. 

“And would—” Ringo begins, “Say, would ya mind if—”

“Already mopped the thing.”

“Oh, no… well, ta! But, uh…... Clapton’s tent.”

“What ‘bout it?”

Ringo stuffs a forkful of egg in his mouth. “Well, we oughta return it, no?”

“Ye mean _ I _oughta return it, no?”

“Please?” Ringo begs, big blues turned all the way up. “ ‘m in no condition to drive.”

“And why’s that?”

“ ‘m drunk.”

John snorts. 

“And me dick still hurts._ “ _

John spits tea all over his laptop screen.

“I’m in _agony,”_ Ringo swoons southern belle style, accent to boot. “An’ mah sole, _ dyin’ _wish is ta—“

“Get some?”

“Eh, cuddlin’ actually. I’ve still got me arse rash—”

John nearly shits himself laughing. “Does it,” he wipes his screen with the sleeve of Paul’s robe, “Is it still itchin’?”

“Oh, _ yesssssss.” _

“Eughhhhh! Don’t use your bedroom voice on me, mother_fuck! _”

“This is me regular voice!”

John clambers off his chair. “No it ain’t!” 

Ringo starts cackling. John shoves his plate in the sink and runs to grab the van keys, nearly slamming the door into the wall before he remembers about a sleeping Macca. 

He swoops hard, catches it and himself in time. And Paul’s awake_. _ He’s faced away from the door, buried in the covers and has his phone pressed into his cheek. He hasn’t heard a single fuckin’ _ thing _ from this morning. 

“Ta,” Paul snickers into his phone. “God, I was just thinkin’ of you last night, y’know!”

John spots what’s hopefully his wallet and ring of keys on the dresser. And his briefs, but there’s simply no time-- if Paul rolled over he’d be a dead man in a robe. He creeps into the room, tip to toe, firm hand on the door—

“....you’re gonna _ what????” _Paul says abruptly. John snatches up his wallet and sends the ring of keys jangling, but Paul doesn’t move. An annoyed sigh breaks through the sea of covers.

“Y’know,” Paul says in a pained voice, “I just fucking got back.”

John dashes down the stairs in the robe and a pair of slippers he realises are George’s when he gets in the van. He checks that the tent bag’s still squashed in the back, turns the key and drives a smidge down the parking bay before he gets out and runs up the stairs again. 

“Damn,” Ringo startles as John barges through the door. “Tha' was fast—”

_ “Where’sClaptonevenlive???????” _

“Huh?”

“Where,” John pants. “Does Clapton fuckin’ _live.”_

“You’ve driven there before!”

“He ain’t waitin’ for me downstairs, son!”

“Then why dontcha jus’ call ‘im th— _ oh, _ wait—”

John puts his hands on his hips. Ringo shoots out of his chair and pounds on the bathroom door. 

“Geo? _ Geo!! _Where does Eric—”

~

And this is why you always fix your FUCKING phone, FUCKER, the voice in John’s brain yells at him as he speeds down the road. Eric’s building is barely a stone’s throw, but this time John realises there’s no parking bay in sight. He’s ready to go back to bed by the time he’s found and parked in the nearest Sainsbury’s lot and hauled the bag to the lift. 

The seventh floor, flat number seventy-five (or six, but he’s _ pretty _ sure it’s five). The robe slides open again as he rings the doorbell, so thank god no one answers right away. John drops the bag and grabs the robe when the door swings open. 

Eric, shirtless and mussed up hair, stares stock-still at John. He’s got his phone to his ear and crusty eyes. John squeezes the robe around himself. 

“.........uhhhh. Listen, I’ll call you back?......oh, c’mon.”

John pretends to be very intrigued by Eric’s neighbour’s potted plant. Eric turns away, speaking miles a minute, and cuts the call after a quick shriek. He tries to smile. “....sorry.”

“ ‘s fine,” says John. He picks up the tent bag. “She’s clean.”

Eric blinks hard, as if he’s never seen the thing. Then:

“Oh! You all came back!”

“Uh-huh.”

“I thought Geo said you’d be like three days gone.”

“We were_ going_ _to,_” John feels his teeth grit. “ 's just that we all got into a bit of a….. _ family spat, _ yeah? An’ Paul just wanted out, so...” John draws air circles with his finger, and shrugs. “We jus’ came back. Too crazy. I’ll spare ya the details.”

“Hey, I wanna hear ‘bout it!” 

“Said I’ll_ spare _ya the details.”

Eric opens the door wide. “What if I make you juice?” 

~

Eric’s flat is much cleaner than theirs, and they’ve got _ Paul _ as resident Ministry of Cleanliness. John remembers George mentioning a flatmate or two, but there are currently none in this Ikea showroom of a flat. Anyroad, they’d lived in London longer. There’re framed pictures on the walls. An acoustic Hoyer rests on a stand by the sofa. A biscuit tin is wedged on the pepper-flecked Formica between a blender and a fruit bowl, and a stereo that John immediately covets is sat on the edge of the counter playing a [song](https://open.spotify.com/track/1ruvaZSnBIiHTrasurLGEc?si=5Gyjd-SoRlmY7KFkSo4b0w) off the iPod in its centre. 

Eric drops fruit in the blender and fills the flat with noisy whirring. John selects a seat at the table and tries not to let his mind go places. He squints at Eric from the corner of his eye. Macca would like a super-blender, no? He’d go mad for it. But what about a _ stereo??? _ Those had alarm clocks and radios in them. Macca would _ love _ a three-for-one thingy, no? No???????

George’s head cuts right in._ You could at least pretend to care— _

“Say, John?” Eric clicks the blender off. “You’re a married man.”

John blinks. “Ah, actually—“

“I’ve been havin’ problems with Mel,” Eric confesses. He pours the juice into two cups. “A hell, _ hell _lot of problems.”

John blinks again. “Who?”

“Melia. My, uh…. girlfriend.” Eric says in a low tone. He sits right across John, who can’t tell if he’s miffed or sad. “Just now? That was her. We’ve been fighting for like a _ week _ and I can’t fucking takeit no more. She says I never listen to ‘er.”

“.......well, _ do _ you?”

“Course I do!” Eric says indignantly. “ ‘s all I ever do these days! She’s a real talker, y’know?”

"I _ know _ talkers," John takes a sip of his juice. "Not _ your _ talker. What exactly is it that ya need?"

_ "Guidance." _

John has a war flashback. 

"I listen to _everything _she says," Eric rants. "I mean, I know her family's names and her pets' names and her bloody primary school and all that, cause she _ told _ me! Heck, she doesn't know the first things 'bout me! She thinks my middle name's Parker or some shit. We had a row that night."

"Son, _ I _ don't know yer middle name."

"It's Patrick."

"Oh," John nods. "That's..... nice."

"So," Eric says, hands out. "What's your advice?"

"I can't give ya advice, really," John says quickly. " 'm still figuring this stuff out meself, too."

"C'mon, please? I know Paul ain't a bird, but think about— think about the relationship as one whole idea, yeah? As a general thing? And surely you've had rows. Like when you were dating? Before you two got hitched and all—"

“Paul and I aren’t married!” John blurts, half-laughing as if to soften it all for Eric and oddly, he feels, for himself. “The husband thing’s a.... _deal_ between us.”

Eric freezes. Blinks. And then he finally drinks ALL of his fucking juice in one gulp. So this was how George chose his mates. He sets his cup down with a thump.

"...you're not married."

"Yeah."

"But you've agreed to be _ husbands." _

"Yeeeeeeeeeeah."

"So.... you're engaged?"

"...........no."

"But you do_ love _ each other."

John nods. He feels a smile take over his face, and Eric's in relief. 

"Then think— how d'you solve your arguments? How’d you get back from the last one you had—"

John doesn’t hear. He looks down at Eric’s empty cup. It looks like a well. 

~

It’s past noon when John leaves for the van. Eric’s girlfriend had called after he’d relayed almost the entire camp trip to him (he’d left out the bit where Paul admitted to breaking the fuckin' law, but something tells him Eric wouldn't need to know about that). And thank _ god _ he’d been such a sport. 

For a moment he’s free: a weight lifts off his chest. But once he’s settled in the driver’s seat it sinks back on him like an anvil. He can’t drive home yet. 

_ Paulie, my one, my only _— Jesus John, you writin’ a song?

_ Fancy dinner? A fancy dinner?— _no, he’ll fuss about the price.

_ So last night was fuckin’ gear— _ NO, _ way _ too Starrison—

A lightbulb powers up in his head. John goes into the Sainsbury’s and picks a bouquet of a dozen crimson roses from the fridge. He drives back home, pops a gum, and straightens out his robe— Paul would be too busy fawning over the roses to even be _mad_ about John stealing his robe. Joy!

“Oh, _ Macca!~~~” _ He sings, kicking the front door open. _ “ ‘m—” _

His eyes meet that of Ringo’s, en route to his bedroom. He’s wrapped in a blanket cape and has, shit you not, a can of whipped cream in his bandaged hand.

“Jesus _ fuckin’ _ Christ,” John laugh-whispers.

Ringo looks at him confusedly. Then at the whipped cream. He starts giggling like a tit. “Paul went for a walk.”

“Oh?” 

“Left a text. He’s in one of his _ moods_, like,” says Ringo. “Where’d ya get the flowers?”

“Sainsbury’s.”

“....we have a Sainsbury’s?”

“Well, Clapton does,” John shrugs. The robe falls open aGAIN. Ringo launches into a series of wheezes. 

“Ahhh, fuck. Shoulda bought me own.”

“Yeah, no shit,” says Paul. 

John and Ringo jump a foot out of their skins. Paul startles too, but keeps his feet firm on the ground, and his arms tight around himself. And the very obvious BULGE in his jacket. 

“Hi,” he says, casually. “Lovely day, ain’t it?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ringo says slowly. “Very lovely—”

“WHAT THE _FUCK,” _ John demands, pointing. _ “IS THAT??????????” _

Then the bulge starts_ wriggling. _ Ringo gasps. Paul promptly shuts the door, double-locks the catch. John shrinks back and drops the bouquet. Paul kneels one knee to the floor, unzips his jacket—

and out tumbles a white_ puppy. _

John feels his mouth fall open and Ringo claps his free hand to his. The puppy lets out a noise that’s barely a baby whimper, turns its little head to Paul. 

“Before ye say anything,” Paul mutters sharpish from the floor, _ “She _ followed me.”

The beginnings of a protest start rising in John’s throat, but the sheer, strong _softness_ in Paul’s eyes silences him. He scoops the pup into his arms, and smiles when she burrows in, an_ actual_ smile. John feels something start to fall loose, but it isn’t the robe.

“John?” 

“Wha—?”

“I’m gonna need you to run the bath.”

“But— but Macca,” Ringo cuts in. “Dogs aren’t _ allowed _ in—”

“I _ know! _ But I couldn’t just leave her, could I? It’s fuckin _freezin’_ out there! And look how cuteshe is! _God!”_ Paul squeals. “Have ye ever seen anythin’ more divine???? No!"

“Uh."

_ “NO.” _

The pup wags her tail. _"See????????"_

John inhales deeply. "Macca. Are you okay?"

"Me? 'm _ great! _'m splendid!"

"Then why the fuck would ya do somethin' this..... this _fucked???"_ John yells, running out of words. "The neighbours are gonna fuckin' hear her!"

"The neighbours are gonna fuckin' hear _ you!" _

"The neighbours are gonna fuckin' hear ALL of you," Ringo hisses, "If ye don't _shut up!"_

" 'ey," says George, emerging from his room with a tub of Ben and Jerry's. "The fuck's goin' on???? What neighbours??—"

The pup lets out a _ bark. _

George stares at her. He then limps back into his room and slams the door. 


	3. paul loses his god damn mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LONG TIME NO SEE.... firstly, thank you to my excellent beta [casafrass!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casafrass/pseuds/Casafrass)
> 
> secondly,
> 
> i wholeheartedly did not expect to get fucked over the way i did by this year. i don’t think anyone else did either for that matter. i’m lucky enough to still be perfectly healthy, but shortly after april, school kicked us all off campus and then got into every hour of my day. that, and i hated my own writing so much i repeatedly wanted to quit.
> 
> but i love stories and i love dear miffy very much, so here we are again. i can hardly believe what’s become of this year, and i can only hope we can all get through this together. peace and luv.
> 
> so enjoy. i beat a whole semester of college and crippling self-doubt for this. i don’t care if it’s not as good as everything else out there, i just want to write. thanks

Paul ends up doing everything himself anyway. He runs the water, grabs the towels, raids the shelves for bath things and lights the sugar candle John hates at the edge of the tub. The pup yips and yaps and circles Paul’s legs. Her fur falls over her eyes like bangs. 

“Is that even safe??” 

“What’s safe?”

“That!” John points from the doorway. Paul’s holding a bottle of Pantene very much made for humans. A bottle of Pantene very much belonging to John. 

Paul plops it back on the shelf. “Fuck.”

“Oh! Ye know what _ else’s _fucked?”

Paul sighs. 

_ “ME!” _ John prods himself in the chest. “ ‘s not fuckin _ allowed _ in the building, Macca! Why are you like this??? And ye _ know _ I—“

“Ah ah ah,” Paul covers the pup’s ears. “Don’t listen to ‘im, Knickers!“

_ “KNICKERS?????” _

“What.”

**“YOU _NAMED_ IT????????????_”_** John bellows. “OF ALL THE **FUCKING** THINGS!”

“Jesus, John! Calm down,” Paul hoists himself up on the showerhead knob and lets sprays fall in the tub. “There's no need ta shout!”

_“There's no need to shout?????????????—“_ he points at the snivelling pup. “You and THAT are gunna get us all in the fuckin’ _ soup! _Why the hell did you bring a DOG back to our house????????????????????”

“I jus’ want one, okay?” 

“Oh my _ GOD. _ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?” 

“I’m deadly serious,” Paul snickers. “I was never allowed one at home, so—”

“Well ye ain’t allowed one here _ either!” _ John says flabbergastedly. “And who’s always goin’ on an’ _ on _ an’ _ ON _ ‘bout there being no space in here???????????????????????????????????????”

“Look, Johnny, hear me out—”

_ “You _ hear me out! You’re off yer bloody rocker!” John’s voice goes shrill, prickling his own ears. “You’re not fucking _ keeping _her, are ya??”

Paul glares at him. He rests his head against the wall with a sigh. The pup paws at the tub and at Paul’s foot.

“Sorry,” Paul unhooks the showerhead with a calm hand, running the other under the spray to check its warmth. John pulls himself through the doorframe and charges hot-stepped into the bathroom.

_ “Well?” _

“Well what?” Paul says softly. 

“Don’t you be goin’ all dumb on me,” John hisses. He’s lost enough cute Macca games to recognise one from a distance. He slams the door into the wall— the pup yelps, and John swears the veins in his head will burst in bangs of blood. “_ Lookit _ , lads,” he mimics in a pithy Macca curl, “Say ‘ello to me new _ bitch, y’know— _“

Paul sprays him with the showerhead. 

~

George rips the lid off the Ben and Jerry’s. He’s locked the door and shunt his laundry against it and Macca is an inconsiderate, overhyped, barmy-headed, danger-fucking, drama-addicted, brainless doe-eyed **arsehole. **He digs his spoon into ice-cream. 

A DOG. A WHOLE FUCKING _ DOG. _ Paul hit his head falling down the well, George’s absolutely sure. He _ would _ scream, but Paul would scream right back at him and pop his artery and die. And then scream again because he got blood all over the wHOLE-ASS _ DOG _ IN THEIR FUCKING FLAT. 

The door handle squeaks. “You better not be startin’ without me!” 

George, mouth-full, sighs. “No.” And Ringo, bless him, sighs as well.

“They’ve stopped now...”

A high bark rings faintly through the wall. A _ clunk _ of something against bathtub enamel follows, then the slamming of a door. Either way it would all end in angry moans. 

George licks the spoon clean. “I give it a week.”

“Wha?”

George leans himself closer. “I give it a week before they get their fuckin’ arses _ caught.” _

No reply. George sighs again swinging his legs out of bed, when:

“I give it two.”

“So generous of you. Twenty quid.”

“For a _ dog? _”

“Twenty-five.”

“Softy,” Ringo snorts. “Come take a look at this.”

“At what?” 

“Open up, I promise you’ll like it.”

George unlocks the door and meets Ringo in his blanket cape, clutching a bouquet of _ roses. _

“Oh,” he says, and can’t stop the smirk that slips out. “Ye shouldn’t have.”

“Don’t worry, they’re John’s. D’you have like a spare pot or somethin’?”

“You can’t put those in a _ pot. _Stems’ too long.”

“Then a vase?”

“Bingo.” 

George digs his box from the storeroom and splits the tape with the kitchen scissors.

“Ey, yer famous pot garden.”

“Oh I _ wish,” _ George sifts through all the plastic ones till he gets to the vases at the bottom. “And by the way, it _ is _a herb ya know.”

“What, weed?” 

“Yeah. And therefore—” he slides John’s glasses from his pocket and onto him— “it should be legal.” Ringo stares before creasing up. 

“The hell’s that for?”

“ ‘e left it sittin’ around!” George picks a slender blue barrel. “Fill this up to like…” he looks over the tops of John’s glasses. “......here.”

“Can ya even see in those,” Ringo says at the sink.

“Course not. Lord, if John’s _ this _ blind…”

“Oh my God, he jus’ went out drivin’.”

“Well he’s back safe ain’t he.”

Another loud slam from the McLennon door. Maybe.

“Riiiiiight,” Ringo slaps the tap shut as he turns himself around. “Take ‘em off! You’re morphin’ inta him!”

The door slams again somehow, this time even heavier than the last. George doesn’t flinch. By the looks of how Ringo’s clasping the close of his blanket cape, there’s a good chance that he’s very naked under it.

“With just these on?” he laughs.

“Bruh.”

“Me face don’t look wiped in, does it?”

_ “Anyone _ looks like John if they wear ‘is specs.”

George makes a vomit noise. He tears them off rightaway.

“Tha’s better,” Ringo says, bandaged hand full of vase. Then his good hand reaches for George’s and nicks the glasses by the temple.

“Whuh—”

“Lookit,” Ringo says, bending his head around the glasses. George stares at him. He doesn’t look like John in the slightest when they sit on his nose, because his ice-eyes are MAGNIFIED. George clutches at his heart.

“See?” Ringo clutches his blanket tighter. “Dead ringer.”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Really?” 

George holds up his phone. Ringo splutters and hides his face as the camera clicks. 

“How dare ye! Don’t post that!”

“On _ where?” _

“God knows what you’re hidin’ on there,” Ringo steps back with his other hand still a shield, but relents quickly as he musses his hair. “Okay, _ now _ take it.”

“Hah!”

“Me best angle, no?”

“Tha’s every angle.”

“Sure,” Ringo says, glasses a-bobble on the bridge of his nose. But still he laughs, he laughs. “Thanks.”

George swoops forward and kisses him. He meant to only peck, but then there're plenty of them. In the vase the water sloshes nosily.

“Oh Jesus, watch it!” Ringo half yelps.

“Hold still then!”

He doesn’t, the way he doubles up giggling all over George. The vase lands safely on the counter, its future occupants still in their paper wrap. All of George’s pictures are blurry. The last click’s silenced when Ringo pulls him in at last, smooches him long and light, and everything turns to gold and _ joy. _

“Ye look so nice,” Ringo declares contentedly as they sway and his hands link themselves behind George’s neck. “This is the best week of me life.”

“Even with yer rash?”

“Everythin’ else’s too good fer it.”

And it_ is, _ it IS! The _Lord_ knows it is, and it’s only Friday the first. If the rest of it could be half as peaceful as it was right now, he’d take it with every single bit of him. George lowers his hands, holds Ringo through the long drape of the blanket cape as he shuts his own eyes and—

“I’m not here, I’m not here!” Paul shouts as he knocks over all the shit on the floor. The dog’s under his arm like a rolled up rug. He grabs his dumped rucksack from last night with his knees and unzips it with a wobbly hand. 

“Uh, Macca,” Ringo says, pulling away, “Ye need some help over there?—”

“I said ‘m not here!” Paul retrieves his wallet and lets the sack fall back to the floor. The dog whines as she beats her tail on the roll of white at his elbow. 

“The hell are ye doin’?” says George.

“Knickers needs a bath and I can’t use Pantene on her,” Paul counts his cash one-handed. “An’ I’ll need ta get her somethin’ to eat and somewhere to sleep in and stock up on our eggs—”

“John sent you roses,” Ringo blurts. 

“Cool thanks John,” Paul snaps his wallet shut. He crosses their living room to the counter and then stops with his eyes on Ringo. “Ye naked?”

Ringo swings his cape apart to reveal his sleep shirt and boxers. 

“Oh, okay.” George absolutely cringes when Paul squashes the roses with his wrist seizing the van keys from the tin, but it’s his fucking _ elbow _ that makes him grit his teeth. He pecks Ringo quick before he limps after Paul and the next slam of the door. 

~

Paul doesn’t look back once. He and John had made such a fucking _racket._ He unzips his jacket hastily and stuffs Knickers inside as he takes the stairs two at a time like he’s running something awful. 

If the neighbours’ doors opened he could say he took her in just to give her a kip. A bad paw he could easily fix. He’d thought it was about to rain when she bounded up to him in the street, it’s _ kind _ to shelter lil animals ain’t it! Who could blame them if they decided to follow you home?? He jumps into the van, turns the key, and breathes.

The passenger door flies open. 

“FUCKING _ASSHOLE—”_

“Oh sweet_ Lord, _‘s me!”

“What the hell are you doin’ here?????”

“Checkin’ that you didn’t fuckin’ kill yerself!” George deposits his bum right in. “What did John do to you?”

“Nothing.”

George looks at him suspiciously. 

“I mean it!”

“We’re alone,” George says through his death glare at Knickers. She stares right back. 

“He didn’t do anythin’. I only sprayed him with the shower, _ alright?” _

George rolls his eyes. In Paul’s jacket Knickers thumps her paws against his chest and begins to yip. 

“I dunno how long I’m gon be out, y’know.”

“ ‘kay.”

“Weren’t you and Ritchie on a date or somethin’?”

“I_ live _ with Ritchie.” And George straps himself in. Paul swallows his sigh and braces himself, but nothing happens. George plugs his earbuds in and doesn’t complain or mope or even _ scowl. _ When Paul comes back to the van with a lead from the pet shop, George’s _ grinning _ at his phone so widely Paul sees his chompers. 

Thank god. 

Knickers fusses when he tries to attach the collar, even more so when he dangles a bone treat over her nose. She paws his jacket and swipes at his throat.

“Sit,” he tries. “Sit!”

“Jus’ give it ta her already,” George groans. 

Paul drops the treat in. Slobber splatters all over his trousers. He narrows his eyes at George. 

“She’s sittin’,” he shrugs. 

~

Paul manages to mop up the worst of it by the time he’s parked at Tesco, and coaxes Knickers into sitting at a bike rack with two other sleeping pups. He gathers all his tissues and chucks them in the bin. 

“Be honest,” he says to George. “Do I look like I pissed meself?”

“No—”

“Ta.”

“Ye look like shit though.”

_ “Ta.” _

“Want me to kill John fer ye?” 

“I _ said _ he didn’t do anythin’,” Paul frees a trolley. “I’ll tell you if he does, _ okay?” _

George tilts his head.

“Jus’ help me get eggs,” Paul sighs. George laughs at him before whipping out his phone again and hobbling off to the dairy aisle.

Paul blinks. He stares at George’s ankle. He thinks of trees so tall they branch into the sky.

And it’s only been fourteen hours.

Sweet Jesus. 

Had he secured the lead right? Probably. 

He takes a box of cheese crackers from the shelf. 

_ Chalk and cheese, _ John relays to him proudly as they strum on his bed one afternoon, courtesy of Mimi. _ She said we’re far apart from each other. Chalkandcheese. _

Paul remembers giggling. Maybe he slapped John’s shoulder for it and sent himself plucking the wrong chords, but he can’t exactly remember right now. His nose scrunches as he turns away from the now-stinking suspicion that he was indeed a dusty stick of chalk. 

Well, he thinks, then John was a mouldy hunk of brie. He turns his nose up and wheels the trolley past the dairy aisle—

“Ohmygodwhothefuck.”

“I got your eggs,” George slips a megacarton into the trolley. “Alright?”

“Yer feet are fuckin’ _ cold!” _Paul looks to where George’s bare (good) foot is pressed up against his shin. 

“Well _ you’re _ fuckin’ burnin’.” George steadies himself on the front and takes his icy foot with him. “And smooth.”

Paul looks down at his black bush of a leg.

“Yer _ skin.” _

Paul snorts. He makes to move, but George stares at him intently and stops the trolley. He taps his bad foot up and down. 

“What’re you doin’?”

“I dunno, what’re _ you _ doin’?” George switches feet. “You wanna get us all evicted?”

Oh. “Look, I just… I just wanna take care of somethin’ properly—”

“Cause if you do, make sure it’s before St Valentine’s,” George continues. “Ritchie owes me nosh.”

“......whuh?”

“You take care of _ me _ properly,” George lifts off of the trolley at last. _“All_ of us.”

“Geo, I took you camping and you fell out of a tree.”

“There were boars.”

_ “Exactly! _ I should’ve jus' picked a real campsite! I let you all almost _ die _ for me lazy arse!”

“Dude, if anyone_ really _ almost died that would be _ you—” _

“Oh my god,” Paul says, hands tight on the handle. “I’m such a shit friend.”

“Macca.”

“Ritchie’s fuckin’ _arse,_ John and the _toaster,_ _you can’t even walk right no more—”_

_ “Macca,” _ George slaps his shoulder. “It’s jus’ a sprain.”

“You fuckin’ sure about that????” Paul points at George’s fucked up ankle. “From fallin’ out a tree?????”

“Wasn’t a very_ big _ tree! What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that _ yOU GOT FUCKING HURT!” _

George shrinks back in surprise. Paul’s then very aware that people are staring. Even the nearby staff have paused their restocking to stare at him and his wet trousers. 

“Paulie,” George says calmly. “Breathe.”

Paul buries his face in his hands.

“Count ta three.”

One, two, three, f—

“Fuck, okay,” he grips the trolley handle again. “ ‘m calm now.”

“I love you Macca,” George says earnestly, palms pressed together it’s like a prayer pointed at him. “But sometimes I wish you’d jus’ _ sit down.” _

A smile tugs at the corner of Paul’s mouth. He bites it quick to stop his eyes from burning. 

“ ‘m tired.”

“Me too,” George rests his hands on top of his. “Thought I’d sleep twenty years.”

“Why didn’t ye then?”

“Who’s gonna make sure ye sit down?” 

Paul only smiles. It tells George enough. He takes over the trolley and shuffles sportily to the cashier. Paul follows as he steadies his breathing, and steadfastly thinks of the good though people’s eyes follow him still. He adds a cornflakes box and a milk jug to their groceries as he joins George in the queue.

He breathes a sigh of relief. At least one of them was doing alright. Even if George was screeching all hell down deep inside he was doing a great job of Playing It Cool. He checks his phone and snickers. He flips through a car mag that he adds to their cart when it’s their turn. And their cashier, a freckly bloke with braces, points at his Queen tee with a scream.

“I love your shirt!” 

“Thanks,” George smirks. “My boyfriend chose it fer me.”

Paul stops dead right where he’s standing. His phone rings shrilly from his pocket.

“You’ve got a cool boyfriend,” the cashier scans the box of cornflakes. He then nods at Paul. “This him?”

“No, that’s me brother,” George laughs, rich with freedom and mirth. Paul wrings himself from the queue and makes a beeline for the exit. “An’ he’s married!”

~

Ringo, bless him, asks no questions and gets told no lies. But John can’t stand the way he’s shaking his hips at the stove like an excited housewife. His [music](https://open.spotify.com/track/2vz1CsL5WBsbpBcwgboTAw?si=aG1eXl3rR-WAaAgf-hHwQA) is merry and he’s even cooking something, something that smells so hearty and familial and_ not_ festering in sopping wet like John is. He drags the towel over his head again. 

An even chippier song starts on Ringo’s phone, set on the edge of the sink. As he whoops jubilantly John tears away from the kitchen and stuffs his scream into the towel. 

“Dance with meh Johnny!”

“Fuckoff.”

“I’ll give ye first taste!”

_ “FUCK _ OFF!”

Ringo dashes to the table, takes his arms, and John’s twisted and twirled around the kitchen like a tornado. He screeches when Ringo dips him and damn near smashes his head into the counter, but as the song ends Ringo whirls him safely back into his seat. And brings him tea. 

“Jesus.” He eyes Ringo’s blanket cape. “Are ya fuckin' naked?”

Ringo spreads open to reveal his boxers and…. George’s Black Parade tee. It's so cheesy John’s tea dribbles back to his mug from his mouth.

“Didn’t think it’d be this big,” Ringo pulls the collar up to his nose. “Kinda smells like wood.”

“Were you fuckin’ wearin’ that all day?”

“Yeah! Didn’t ye see??”

“Well, our lives were in danger, so...”

“Tis but a roach.”

_ “Tis but a roaaaaAAAAAAAhHHH—” _

“Fuckoff, it came outta me _ tea,” _Ringo swats him. “What was I meant to do?”

John snorts. He tosses his towel at Ringo’s head, but misses. Oh god, if he’d lost his glasses too…

“Ye really went out in that?” Ringo asks. He pours himself a clear glass of tea. 

“Huh?”

Ringo pulls at his cape. John looks down at Paul’s sopping wet bathrobe.

“Didn’t ye see me?”

“I’ve seen too much,” Ringo laughs. “I dunno what ta believe right now.”

_ “Yes, _ Ritchie, I went out like this,” John says slowly. “I drove all the way ‘round town, went to Sainsbury’s, and then crawled home starkers.”

Ringo giggles. 

“....and I may or may have not accidentally flashed Clapton.”

The baby blues widen. “Really????”

John gestures down at the flimsy sash that just wouldn’t hold around him. Paul was definitely the slimmer of them both, but this was just bollocks. 

“He say anything ‘bout it?”

“No,” John exhales. “He was a fuckin’ _ sport.” _

“Oh.”

“And he made me juice.”

“Ohh.”

“The hell arye smilin about??”

“Me beans!” Ringo then gets up and runs to the kitchen. “Come an’ get it!”

John drops his head to his knees instead. Even Ringo seemed to be living on a separate plane of existence now, with his happy face and where his slap-up tea of baked beans and cold eggs was some massive holy meal. When Paul and George return Paul’s cooing at the lump in his jacket and wastes no time carrying her into their bedroom. 

George jumps on Ringo and clings like a koala.

“Wash yer hands!” Ringo mock-scolds.

“You made tea??” A rough-n-tumble sound comes from the kitchen. Then a shriek. Then silence. John peers down the hall and catches sight of his bedroom door closed shut.

“Oh fuck,” George says suddenly. “I left the ice-cream on the bed!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, thank you [CelesteFitzgerald](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelesteFitzgerald/pseuds/CelesteFitzgerald) for awesome writing advice and enduring reading every single draft of this chapter. you da bomb!


	4. ringo and the rest of the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super big thank you [casafrass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casafrass/pseuds/Casafrass) and [CelesteFitzgerald](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelesteFitzgerald/pseuds/CelesteFitzgerald) for looking over this chapter.  
and to my dearest [blobfish_miffy,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/pseuds/blobfish_miffy) the whole reason i'm writing this. sorry for the wait, this is somewhat different!

February 2 

Ringo doesn’t care a jot that their Ben and Jerry’s is now a tub of soup. He sprays whip cream on top and sticks two halves of a Kit Kat in it. While the McLennons eat cup ramen outside they drink their tub of milkshake in bed and watch half an episode of Black Mirror before George pulls Ringo onto his chest and grinds his hips against his.

Loudly. 

Ringo smiles into George’s shoulder and doesn’t move till the alarm’s long gone.

“Don’t ye _ dare,” _George finds his waist and tugs. “You’re nice an’ warm…..”

“Thank you,” Ringo picks his fingers off. “That happens when I gotta piss.”

“Stay with meeeeeeee.”

“I need ta pisssssssssssss.”

_ “Then piss on meeeeeeeeeeeee!” _

He nearly does; how hard he doubles up. George eyes Ringo's arse as he escapes to the toilet right across their hall and shuts them. He rolls over in the blanket. Who would’ve thought? He’s reached the peak of peace in the wet winter of London. He doesn’t hear the Daily McLennon Row at breakfast_ or _ their new illegal pet. _ He’s _ the one with the clean slate and a boyfriend he can snog whenever he fuckin’ wants. 

And then he coughs himself off the bed. 

~

_ “Now _who’s tryin’ to kill themselves,” Paul sighs as he removes his phone light from George’s mouth and nudges Ringo off his shoulders. “Lookit the fuckin’ size of his tonsils!”

George growls the best growl he can muster. 

“Good thing we don’t gotta gig tonight…” Paul turns to Ringo. “Please tell me ye didn’t have ice cream in winter.”

“We had ice cream in winter.” 

Paul sighs again.

“It was melted!”

“Tha’s even worse, ‘s got bacteria in it!” Paul returns to chopping up his mango. “It hurts, Geo?”

“I’ve ‘ad worse.”

“Can ye swallow?”

George and Ringo snort. 

_ “Water.” _

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaybe.”

“Okay, good,” Paul slides his mango slices into a glass of yoghurt. “We’ve still got honey and the kettle’s still hot, so do what ye gotta do y’know.”

“God bless ye Macca,” Ringo salutes him. “How’s yer elbow? Ye change the bandage?”

“ ‘s good, thanks.” Paul scoops his toast off the counter and rounds off to their table, the sash of his reclaimed robe bouncing on his calf. George grins. He gets on his knees and opens their cabinet doors.

Ringo’s beside him in seconds. “You’ll bump yer head! Lemme.”

“ ‘s _ my _ tonsils,” George laughs, but it turns into coughs. 

“Poor yer tonsils,” Ringo kneels and dives right past him into the bottom shelf. “Go sit down, I’ll make it for ye.”

“Oh Lord, thank you.”

“ ‘s alright.”

“Gimme a kiss.”

“Not until ye sit down!”

George pretends to kick Ringo’s arse when he gets up. He makes a swipe for his mug and sighs when he remembers its gone to heaven. He reaches over the mug stand to get a glass instead and freezes.

In front of him, John and Paul eat breakfast in_ boring _silence. John munches cornflakes as he scrolls through his laptop and Paul butters a piece of toast, but somehow it feels like they’re staring the other down without even looking up. It makes him unreasonably uncomfortable.

George coughs loudly as he takes his seat next to John, who shields his bowl and shifts his comp without a word. Paul clinks his spoon mixing the fruit around in his yoghurt glass . From the sounds of bumping metal and scraping from the kitchen, Ringo hadn’t luck finding the honey. George eyes the McLennons. _ He's _the backbone of the household now. 

“Soooooo,” George clears his throat. “How’s Knickers?”

Beside him John’s hand freezes on his touchpad. 

“Oh, uh, fine,” Paul reaches for a piece of toast. “Finally got ‘er to sleep.”

“Where_ is _ she sleepin’, by the way?”

“Just… y’know, I’ll get somethin’ better when we’ve got time, but fer now I’d say she likes me old quilt, y’know?”

_ “You _love that quilt.”

“She can have it, I washed her. Right, Johnny?”

George looks at John in surprise. He winks at Paul before resuming his scrolling. 

_ “You helped?” _

“He only has two hands,” John says breezily as Paul happily spoons himself some yoghurt. “She’s lucky she’s cute.”

George stares at John and Paul in utter disbelief. Where were the two bathroom-destroying fucks from yesterday?? The bathroom-destroying fucks who were _ fighting over a DOG????? _

“We don’t gotta clean ‘er again today, right?” John asks. 

“I don’t think so? It’s not like we’re gonna be out lots… maybe I’ll jus’ Google it...”

_ “Honehhh, I’m homeeeeee!!” _ Ringo waltzes in with the kettle and the little jar of gold. Paul’s eyes widen as his phone blasts up with _ Galileos. _

“Scuse me,” he says, getting up as Ringo gets in. 

“What’s this now?” John shuts his laptop. “You makin’ Sweethearts?”

“Wait yer turn,” Ringo takes George’s glass and fills it with hot water. “This is for_ my _ sweetheart.”

_ OH SWEET LORD. _

“Better get checked before next week or they ain’t bookin’ us,” John opens his comp back up. “Mr Man’s still miffed at us for Christmas.”

“He is??”

“Fuckin’ bastard!” says George. “Ye played all day, didn’t ye?”

“Yeah, but we ditched during happy hour. No more sleepin’ on floors, okay Ring?”

“Yessiree.”

“Good boy. Now give us some, we’re all singin’ next week—”

The door slams. 

Ringo gasps. John jumps. George would yelp if his throat weren’t so furry with melted milkshake. Paul storms back to the table and flips his phone facedown as he sits. 

“Hi Macca,” Ringo says carefully. “You want some honey drink?”

Paul only nods. He rolls up his robe sleeves to grab his god damn toast before brusquely pushing his mug at Ringo.

“Whatsamatter,” John asks. “Who called you?”

“No one.”

Right on cue Paul’s phone buzzes and vibrates the whole table. Paul instead dips his toast into the yoghurt and chows it like he’s been starved.

“Uh.”

“Pass the milk please.”

John squints at him as he passes the jug. Ringo sets the kettle down gingerly and the table’s tremors send the water sloshing. 

“You’re not gettin’ that?” George makes a grab for the phone just as Paul sweeps it up and jabs at it to stop.

“It’s nothing, okay? Auntie Gin’s tryin’ to sell me alpacas.”

“Again??”

~

George helps with the washing up on the account of Ringo having only one functioning hand. And because he wasn’t going to pass the chance to kiss his face even if he coughed his tonsils up next week. 

Ringo starts unwrapping his bandaged fingers. 

“What’re you—”

“Makin’ meself useful!”

“Those need to _ heal,” _George takes his hand. “I’ll wash, you dry?”

Ringo pouts at him, ice-eyes narrowed. “ ‘s four plates.”

“You wanna split yer blisters for four plates?”

Another pout. George brings Ringo’s fingers to his lips, but he draws away sharpish.

“What’s wrong?”

“I got_ blisters!” _ Ringo waggles all his ringless fingers. “If ye swallow me pus I think I’d die.”

“I don’t want that either! Use yer good hand!”

“Fiiiiiiiiiiine.”

George sighs in contentment. “Why’re ye so cute.”

“Hey, that’s not—”

“ ‘s true,” George leans in closer. “Sometimes I think we’d be better off jus you an’ me.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Ye don’t do anythin’ to endanger our fuckin’ lives for one.”

“You mean... you mean the camp?”

“Course I mean the camp, there were fuckin’ _boars! _And by the way, Mac’s Auntie Gin ain’t _supposed_ to be sellin’ alpacas anymore,” George says. “Jim chewed her out _big_ time for that one.”

“So y’mean Paul’s…”

“Liar liar, pants afire.” 

Ringo’s eyes dart to the counter like he’s afraid Paul’s heard, but they’re still completely alone. 

“While _you,_ Lord Starr—" George guides Ringo's chin close to his "— ya don’t lie to our faces, _never_ gob at me for bein’ sick, and ye don’t do anythin’ that might get us all thrown outta London.”

“Thrown outta _what?_ _Why???”_

“The_ dog, _ Ritchie, the dog.”

“Oh,” Ringo looks mildly disappointed. “Knickers _ is _ pretty cute.”

“Her cuteness is gonna kill us all when we get fuckin’ _ busted,” _ George whispers, but the ache in his throat burns it into a hiss. “I get that Macca’s goin’ through somethin’ at the moment, but this _ ain’t _ the way to get through it, y’see?”

“Are ye sayin’ ye don’t like Knickers????” 

_ “No, _I’m sayin’ that Macca’s a self-absorbed son of a—”

George turns away quick and hacks up a storm, bending forward at the sink with both hands gripping the rim. Ringo wastes no time rubbing gentle circles into his back, and it’s so sweet and lovely George would kiss him into next week. 

But Ringo keeps himself a good arm’s length away. “It’s okay, ‘s okay,” he says, and presses his rings to George’s neck as if to cool the heat with their metal. “I’ll take you to the doc before dinner, okay?”

And George lets himself get tucked back into bed, warmed with more of the Godsent honey drink, and Ringo’s smile against his forehead, which, for a moment, makes him forget about the rest of the world. 

February 7 

The rest of the world comes back way too quick. They're all blowing off rehearsal again. John scours his laptop for a new phone, Paul trains Knickers to wee in an old Tupperware that he empties down his own toilet, George takes up cooking classes from Agnes and makes Ringo tag along. She shows them how to squash strawberries into jam, and Saturday morning breakfast blooms as red as Paul's roses. 

“SO,” John says as he takes Nutella anyway, “Big comeback tonight!”

“We were gone for like two weeks,” says Ringo. 

“Two weeks’ a long time, ain’t it?” Paul, ever the good sport, puts more jam in his scone. “Lovely stuff.”

_ “Thank _ you.”

“An’ how’re ye feeling, Geo?”

“I’ll live.”

“Fair enough,” Paul scoops a previously unseen Knickers off the floor and onto his lap. “Don’t give it to Ritchie though.”

George relishes in Ringo spluttering on his sip of tea. John rolls his eyes, and when he decides he’s had enough he turns right back to Paul and grins. 

“Jus’ so ye know, I got me tonsils out as a kid,” Ringo defends himself. “There ain't much for me to catch."

“Whatever. Don’t eat melted stuff,” Paul says, scratching Knickers’ ears. She yips before hopping off him and heading to where he's set up her food bowls. And Paul smiles back at John so radiantly that they look more married than ever. George and Ringo exchange a look. 

Knickers then barks loudly. Paul springs up instantly to lock the door. 

“What?” John says. “What’s up w_OHHHHHH FUCK.”_

John, George and Ringo jump out of their seats. ANOTHER BIG ASS COCKROACH comes scuttling across their table. Ringo whips his mug out of the way and George saves their pot of jam, but John’s not quick enough rescuing his toast. The roach climbs atop his spread and sends him screeching in terror. 

“Oh my God,” Paul comes running. “The fuck’s going on?—”

_“FUCKING RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!”_

Ringo blenches when it scurries towards him. He bolts away nimbly and only just as Paul rolls the magazine on the table and brings it down on the roach with a mighty whack.

“I was readin’ that!” George protests, but Paul screws his eyes shut and slams the table like it owes him.

“Macca, love....” John tries, palms out, but even he stays rooted to where he stands. Paul whacks and whacks the roach even after he’s reduced it to gooey brown paste. 

“Okay that’s enough!” Ringo intervenes at last, grabbing the mag before it hits the table again— the icky bit— with his _bandaged_ _hand—_

“Should we call the fuckin' fumigators,” John suggests from where he’s standing ten feet away. “Second one this week…”

“What the fuck?” Paul shouts. “There’s more??” 

“First one came outta me tea,” says Ringo.

“What the_ fuck??? _DISGUSTANG!”

“Oh God,” John groans. The clump of roach glistens barely inches from his ruined Nutella toast. George hides his grin behind his jar of glittering jam. And Ringo, ever the sweetheart, pats John’s shoulder with his clean hand. 

“It’s okay man, we got cornflakes.”

“An’ waste me precious bread??”

“Well, a roach’s been on it...”

John turns and stares down at Knickers ruffing and pawing his legs. He brushes her off half-heartedly and takes his plate away. George pushes Paul the tissue box so he can mop the table, but he suddenly jolts his head up. 

“Geo, lend me yer phone.”

_“Why?????”_

“I need ta call, it’ll be really quick!”

George grunts. Paul snatches his phone the second it unlocks and opens his contacts. Knickers begins barking again. 

“Don’t worry baby, Daddy’s gonna get ye sorted!”

George and Ringo bust their guts snorting at him.

“Hey Clappy,” Paul says even before Eric can speak. “What d’you know about puppies?”

_ “Huh?” _

“Whaddaya know about puppies.”

_ “Who’s this?” _

“It’s Macca, okay? Whaddaya know ‘bout dogs? Puppies?”

_ “Uhhhh, I had two dogs when I lived with my—“ _

“Okay great! Are ye free tonight?”

~

Paul makes Eric sit near the stage with the lead tied to his wrist, and tells the nearest waiter to put all of his drinks on the band. And damn near steps off the stage a couple of times in the set making sure Knickers’ head lies in his lap. John cocks his head at him after Ringo’s cover of [Honey Don’t](https://open.spotify.com/track/2d7GP7Fz1NrfPpo7MzWZgb?si=jjVoVHNcQ3mk7WSVafAM7A), _ step up mate, _ so he strides back in [strumming Elvis head-on](https://open.spotify.com/track/2CAXzfk8tLXCi3rWjAJUNp?si=xSziSDYpRTGjjj4fwzcSBw) and all is good.

But then John stares at him. They’re truthfully over too quick to be stares, barely even close, but he _ looks _ at him hard and it miffs the hell out of him. Paul ravenously eats in their booth when the first set’s done and John’s eyes still bore into his scalp. Paul clicks his tongue discreetly for Knickers to come over, but even she scorns him for the water bowl she’s been given.

He’s all on his bloody own.

“ ‘ey Macca, y’hear me?” 

“Whuh?”

“I said how’s your elbow?” Eric half-laughs. “Still hurting?”

George’s gotten both feet back and Ringo’s hand was healing fast, but when Paul unwrapped his bandage his weal had become a long scab. It cracked crisply every time he bent his arm, and ITCHED so fuckin’ much he fought not to cut it right off. 

He hides his bandage with his jumper and their second set’s never the wiser. John and George and Ringo shred the place like their lives weren’t just in danger a week ago, and Ringo in particular plays like he’s never been bloody happier in all of his life, like he’s stepped up and more than equipped to show it. He doesn’t look like a drummer who has blisters on his fingers, he looks like one who’s just playing his heart out. 

Paul would be jealous if he weren’t on guitar. His hands are full, too. When the set’s done and the break is on he finds himself alone in the booth. John had run to the loo and George and Ringo god-knows-where. He puts his head in his hands and tries to sit out his scab crackling again. 

A waitress sets a Coke and a glass of ice in front of him. 

“Um, I ordered beer.”

“It’s from that guy over there.” She points towards the bar. Paul looks over wearily,_ sorry I’m married _ speech ready to go, but then Eric bounds over with Knickers in his arms.

“Oh thank god.”

“What?”

“Nuthin,” Paul slides left to let him sit and smiles. “How is she?”

“An angel!” Eric coos. He doesn’t see Paul’s hands out for him to give her back, but it’s just so validating to see that not _all_ his friends are against him this once. “How old is she?”

“I dunno actually, I picked ‘er up from a park.”

“Lucky you! I had to beg and _ beg _ for my Jeep,” Eric says as Paul pops the Coke. “And even then I couldn’t bring him when I moved.”

“Oh dear, he okay?”

“It’s cool. He lives with my nan now and we video call,” Eric hands Knickers over with a final pat to her head. “She’s a beaut.”

“I _ know, _ right?? Thank you, really. For helpin’ out on such short time.” Paul smiles at him before turning to check for a waitress. “I’d buy _ you _ a drink, but you’re already ‘ere with us...”

“Yep.”

“So lemme know if ye need a favour.” 

“Actually,” he says, eying him thoughtfully. “There _ is _something...”

“Course.”

“Can you get everyone in on it too?”

~

“This better be good, I was havin’ the best shit of me life,” John sulks, hiding his stiffy with his sweats. He can’t help but notice how eagerly Paul budges away from him in the booth. 

“Don’t worry! Where’s Ringo?”

“The loo,” George says. “What d’you need?”

“Ahh, let’s wait for him to come back first, right Paul?”

Paul nods listlessly, sipping from a black straw and pointedly looking away from John. He jumps as Eric smacks George on the cheek. 

“Hm?”

Eric waggles his brows. John scoffs. 

“No we didn’t,” George smirks. “We’re waitin’ till his arse totally heals up, y’get me?”

“Uh-huhh.”

“And he’s waitin’ till there’s higher chance he won’t break me foot off.”

“Uh-huhhhhhh.”

“Cause we’re official now.”

Eric’s eyes blow up. _ “Since when???” _

“After camp. An’ we made a playlist together—”

“wHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME,” Eric says, scandalised yet smirking so strongly his face looks like it’ll melt right off. He grabs George by the shoulders. “DID_ YOU _ OR DID _ HE??” _

George smiles. “Him.”

Eric squeals like a schoolgirl. John picks up his glass and sighs into it. Embarrassedly he realises it’s still empty.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME THOUGH."

“I had ta be sure!”

“Oh, _ really.” _

“...extra sure.”

“At last, I have arrived,” Ringo announces as he swoops and fuckin’ smoocheroos George’s cheek. "Oh, by the way—”

“I _know!”_ Eric high-fives him. “Congrats!!”

John tries peering over Paul’s shoulder to see if he’ll share his drink and spiders his hand swiftly across Paul’s forearm. He meets his eyes once, but carries on sipping.

“Yeah yeah, here come the brides.” John groans. “Whaddaya need us for?”

“Simple!” Eric rests his arms on the table and tips Paul’s entire glass with his elbow. “Ohhh shit, sorry—”

“ ‘s fine!” Paul plants Knickers in John’s lap as he swabs the Coke dripping down the top. “ ‘s all fine—”

"Geooooorgieeeee, can ye grab tissues?"

“Good _Lord,”_ George groans, clambering past Ringo one-kneed. Eric and Ringo laugh, but Eric stops the second George’s far from the table. “GeoooooooooOOOOOOOooooOOo,” he calls, and smiles when George heads onwards to the bar. “So, gentlemen.”

“God, hurry up,” says John. Knickers’ licking stripes up his shirt. 

“As ye may have noticed, it is _ February.” _

“Is it now?” says Paul. “Hadn’t noticed.”

“Course it is. In three weeks I'm throwing our very own Geo a birthday bash!”

John stops minding Knickers’ slobbery tongue. He’d forgotten February meant George’s birthday. 

“Eric, that’s fab!” Ringo beams. “Where?”

“That’s the thing. I’m recruitin’ you all as my B-Team.”

_ “B- _Team?” says Paul.

“B for birthday. Whaddaya say?”

“Why??” John says, and accidentally flings Knickers out of his lap. Only then does Paul’s head turn. John twists himself out of his seat to pick up the sodding pup. “Why _ this _ birthday I mean.”

“Why not?” Ringo answers instead, eyes already gleaming. “He deserves it! We’re in.”

“Smashing! I’ll make the group. One of youse add Macca in though cause I don’t got his number—”

“I can give you me number,” says Paul. 

“Aight then. One more thing,” Eric’s voice drops to a whisper. “TOP SECRET.”

“An’ what’s that?” 

“What’s what?” George says, dumping a wad of serviettes on the Coke spill. "Why're ya smilin'?"

“Oh, no,” Eric smirks. “I just wanna say thanks for the drinks!”

~

George thankfully never picks this up, his head’s too far up Ringo’s arse. While the club closes they squash up in the booth sharing a pint that George hogs, it being Ringo’s turn to drive. Eric yawns as he plays some game on his phone. Paul chews gum after gum and strums softly for Knickers at his feet. He’s only drunk one beer, but looks totally spent. John clears his throat and gathers courage, only to have Paul pull out his phone and dash to the loo. 

_ Ugh. _

Knickers, poor confused girl, yaps and runs after him. She comes trotting back when the door swings shut in her face. John walks past her and enters, heading right for the sink. 

He and Paul are alone. Physically, that is.

“Look,” he hears Paul groan from the cubicle, “I’m not ready.”

John doesn’t turn the water on. Somehow this didn’t sound like it was about an alpaca. 

“I know, I… just tell him not now, _ please.” _

It wasn’t.

_“When?_ I don’t know when, that’s the point. It’s not that I don’t wanna see him, I— _ no.” _

John takes a measured step closer. 

“I’m _ busy.” _

John inches his ear to the door. Paul’s now hissing on the phone. 

“Well I’m sorry I didn’t end up all gold like _ you, _but I have a life too y'know! And I don’t need ye to bring him in and tell me how the fuck I should live it!”

_ “Oh c’mon Jamie, don’t be like that—” _

“FUCK OFF, GOD DAMMIT!_ GOODBYE!” _

The door bursts open. John stumbles in shock, catching himself on the sink edge before he can fall. Paul glares at him with something that could be anger, but the rims of his eyes run red and black from his makeup. 

“Jesus Christ,” John says. “You okay?”

“I....” Paul begins, but doesn’t continue. He catches sight of himself in the mirrors behind John and swiftly splashes his face in the sink, trembling as he does. John lays his hand near his hair. 

“You’ve been off all night,” he whispers. “What’s wrong? Someone tryin’ to hurt you?”

“No, I jus’ had too much,” Paul moves away sharp and swift. He goes to the next sink and of all things pulls a mascara vial from his jeans. “Don’t worry, ‘kay? Lemme jus' touch up and we can go home—”

“You ‘ad _ one _ beer.”

“John.”

“Whatsamatter with you?” 

“Not now.”

“Not now _what??_ Something’s hurting you an’ I’m fucking _ worried!” _

“John, I _ said _no one’s hurtin’ me.”

“Then why’re you all—” John gestures at Paul's messed-up eyes. “What the hell is it???”

“I’m handlin’ it meself, okay?”

“You don’t fucking have to!_ I’m_ here! I just—” John releases the breath that turns over in his throat. “Ever since camp and yer pooch an’ shit I feel like somethin' _bad’s_ happened and you’re keepin’ secrets from me,” he says. “What’s the bloody _matter,_ Paul? Don’t you trust me??”

“No,” Paul’s voice is low. “I feel like ye fuckin’ hate me.”

“....WHAT??”

“And y’know, ’m not sure if it’s me or _her_ ye hate,” Paul throws the main door a disdainful glance. “And if anythin’, it should be _ you _ who don’t trust me, ain't it?”

The camp, the fucking camp.

“Macca, you jus’ made a _ mistake. _ We ALL do! And we’re all alive, aren’t we? What does _Knickers_ have to do with it??”

_“SHE’S ANOTHER MISTAKE, AIN’T IT?”_ Paul nearly laughs with how bitterly he spits this. “Ain’t that what ye wanna fuckin’ tell me????”

"What??? About Knickers???"

"YES ABOUT KNICKERS," he seethes. "I'm sorry she's a great _bitch_ and not a fucking _cat!"_

“I—” John says, but the rest of it gets stuck because Paul’s hit the nail on the head. John slumps with his hand on the sink, and Paul sighs long and hard and resumes washing his face and making it up again. 

“It was nice pretendin’ to be dads in the bath, y’know,” Paul caps his vial shut as he makes for the door. “Really liked that.”

~

It's ages before John gets out of the loo and onto the street.

“Fucking finallyyyyy,” George slurs. “Thought you’d fall in.”

John slaps George right in the tiddies and knocks him into Ringo. Paul stands chewing gum with his back to the van and Knickers sleeping in his arms, his eyes decidedly shut.

Eric mills about near a lamp post.

“Y’need a ride home, Clappy?” 

“That’s alright,” says Eric. “My mate’s picking me up.”

Right on cue a helmeted bloke in a Nirvana tee rides up next to them on a Harley. Eric catches the helmet tossed his way without even looking. John can’t help but notice Paul’s little smirk at the trick. 

“This is Duane,” Eric swings his leg over the seat. “Duane, the Beatles.”

Duane nods at them. He extends his hand to John, who takes it. “Sweet ride.”

“Wait till ya see his brother’s,” says Eric. It earns him a slap on the knee, and he’s then revved away scream-laughing.

“Bloody _ thing,” _George yells, hands over his ears. Ringo dips down in an attempt to hook him up by the arm.

“Fuck oaAAAFFF, ‘m tired!”

“Hi Tired, I’m Ritchie,” Ringo chuckles. “Now won’t ye please get up—” he huffs as George rises to his feet — “so we can _ all _ go home and sleep—”

George curls forwards and empties his guts on the kerb. John looks away sharpish, hand muffling his nose. One whiff of it and he risks being sick himself.


End file.
